


a wolf stands by the western door

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, M/M, Master/Slave, Porn With Plot, Religious Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-07 19:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4274430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The priest is a strange thing. Yusuf keeps telling him to kill it, but Eames has decided he likes Arthur. Likes his bald patch and his ugly clothes, like the way he fingers the cross around his neck when he’s nervous and avoids Eames touch like the plague.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a wolf stands by the western door

**Author's Note:**

> Vaguely AU of _Vikings_. Warning for dubious consent.

The priest is a strange thing. Yusuf keeps telling him to kill it, but Eames has decided he likes Arthur. Likes his bald patch and his ugly clothes, like the way he fingers the cross around his neck when he’s nervous and avoids Eames touch like the plague.

Six months since the raid, and Arthur still tries to be a good little priest. He wears his robes and shaves his head and prays to his strange god. This is where Eames finds him in the evening, down on his knees by the side of Eames’ bed, elbows propped on the furs, head bowed in reverence.  


Eames watches him from behind the screen as his mouth moves: _pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum_. He listens in silence until the words start to repeat, then creeps out to put a heavy hand on the back of Arthur’s neck. Arthur stills beneath him.  


“What do you pray for today?” Eames asks him.  


Arthur turns his head so Eames can see the curve of his cheek, the line of his nose as he speaks. “I pray to God.”  


Eames smiles; he likes the sound of Norse tripping from Arthur’s tongue too. But he is being evasive, hiding something behind his deliberate misunderstanding of Eames’ words. He hasn’t done that in a while.  


“Not what I asked. What do you pray _for_?” Arthur struggles a little, so Eames tightens his grip. “Tell me.”  


Arthur’s breath stutters. “Forgiveness,” he whispers.  


Eames hums. “And what have you done to need that?”  


“Nothing you would understand,” Arthur snaps, then flinches like he’s waiting for a blow.  


Eames won’t hit him. He did once, back in the monastery in England so Arthur didn’t beat him over the head with a candlestick, but he hasn’t raised a hand to him since. Arthur doesn’t trust him though; he probably never will.  


Instead Eames squeezes Arthur’s neck, sweeps his thumb from Arthur’s hairline to the collar of his robe and feels him shiver. “Try me,” he says.  


Arthur’s jaw works like he’s holding words behind his teeth. What comes out is: “Did you want something, _master_?”  


Eames tuts. He keeps telling Arthur not to call him that, but he ignores him. So wilful – but that’s what makes him so appealing.  


Arthur’s eyes narrow like he knows what Eames is thinking. “What? I’m your slave, aren’t I?”  


It makes Eames smile. Arthur might belong to him, but he’s far from a slave. “Then tell me about your prayers,” he orders. “Why would you need forgiveness, slave?”  


Arthur’s mouth twitches. Whether he’s amused or annoyed, Eames can’t quite tell. “It’s nothing,” he says.  


“Liar,” Eames singsongs. “Is that why you had to ask? Because you lied?”  


Arthur growls. “Stop it.”  


He twists, trying to get away, so Eames pushes his face down into the furs. “None of that,” he says. He tries to think of what Arthur has called sins before. “Maybe for your anger? Your hatred for us heathens?”  


“ _Stop_.”  


Eames presses a thumb into the base of Arthur’s neck, demanding, and tamps down on a surprised sound when Arthur relaxes a little under him. “Then is it lust?” he asks instead. “Did you have thoughts about a woman, priest?”  


The one eyebrow Eames can see slides towards Arthur’s hairline. “I have taken a vow of chastity,” he says loftily.  


Eames snorts. “You lead a very boring life.”  


“A godly life,” Arthur corrects.  


It makes Eames scoff. “Ariadne leads a godly life,” he points out. “I lead a godly life. We’re not boring.”  


“No,” Arthur agrees. His eyes are sharp and bright. “No, you’re something else.”  


Eames doesn’t flinch but it’s a close thing. He knows how Arthur sees him: blasphemer, murderer – although he isn’t sure which one Arthur thinks is worse. His hand retreats from Arthur’s throat.  


Arthur sits up sharply, looking surprised that Eames would let him up so easily. Eames ignores it, instead reaching out to tug at the hood of Arthur’s robe.  


“Come on, he says, “Up you get.”  


Arthur rises slowly, a little unsteady from where he’s been on his knees. He tries to step away, but Eames just blocks his way. His hand goes back to Arthur’s neck, draws him in until they’re face to face.  


This close he can see Arthur’s handsome face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones and narrow lips. There’s something almost delicate about him, fragile like a little bird – except Eames knows better, knows how Arthur’s gaze can be as cold as snow and his tongue sharp as a blade. There’s a secret strength to him. Eames wonders, not for the first time, what Arthur is hiding beneath those robes.  


“What did you want?” Arthur is saying.  


“Hmm?”  


“When you came in, you looked like –” Arthur glances towards the door. “Is there work to do?”  


Eames shrugs. There might have been, but he can’t remember now, distracted by the softness of Arthur’s skin beneath his fingertips.  


Arthur sighs almost disapprovingly, says, “ _Eames_.”  


“ _Arthur_.”  


His fingers move without thinking, slide up through soft dark hair to cup Arthur’s skull. He tugs once, hard, and Arthur’s eyelids flutter, his mouth falling open. _Yes_ , Eames wants to say, _that’s it, good boy_ , but he keeps the words behind his teeth.  


He sees the moment Arthur realises what’s just happened. His eyes startle open. There’s a flash of fear there. Not unusual, but this time Eames notices something else, buried deep but still lingering there. Guilt, shame. He wants to pounce on it, but Arthur’s body is tense and unhappy against his.  


“What are you thinking about?” he asks instead.  


Arthur can’t quite meet his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he says again.  


“Come on,” Eames coaxes gently. “You can tell me.”  


“I was thinking –” Arthur’s mouth opens, closes, like a fish fresh out of the fjord. “I was – no.” Then again, harder, angrier: “ _No_. It doesn’t matter.”  


Eames smiles. “It’s okay,” he says, and scratches at Arthur’s scalp to hear his breath stutter. “I already know.”  


Arthur’s head comes up sharply. “What are you talking about?” His voice is thick.  


Oh, the poor priest, so twisted up inside with all the things he wants, _needs_ , but doesn’t know how to ask for. “It’s okay to want,” Eames tells him, hands still carding through his hair. “It might be a sin in England but you are not in England anymore.”  


Arthur jerks back, slipping from Eames’ grasp. “You’re right, I’m not. Because you –” His breath hitches. “– you _stole_ me. Like a, a piece of _jewellery_.”  


Eames tilts his head. The firelight is glinting off Arthur’s hair, his skin, his eyes. “You _are_ as beautiful as a brooch,” he says with a grin.  


Arthur roars like a bear, like a warrior, and swings for him. Eames dodges easily, but he’s still smiling as he does. Arthur has been angry and wilful and resistant but never violent, never vicious. It’s delightful that he finally wants to fight for what he’s been lost, even though Eames is bigger, more skilled, even though Arthur knows he will lose.  


It doesn’t take Eames long to trap him face down on the floor, arms twisted up behind him, pinned beneath the weight of Eames’ knee in the dip of his spine. But still, Arthur struggles, bucking up wildly, every move tinged with desperation. Eames just holds tighter, fingers digging bruises into the pale skin of Arthur’s wrists until Arthur finally stills, panting. The skin of his face where it’s turned towards Eames wet with tears  


“Eames,” he says, and it comes out shaky, broken. “Eames, _please_.”  


Eames shushes him. “I know, I know.” He pauses, considering, wondering how far he can push this. “Stay there. Stay still for me. Don’t move.”  


Arthur makes a soft noise, barely a word. It encourages Eames to loosen his grip a little, shifting his weight off Arthur’s back. When he doesn’t start swinging again, Eames lets go entirely. Arthur doesn’t move his arms an inch.  


Eames smiles. “Good boy,” he says, and sweeps a hand through Arthur’s hair.  


Arthur arches into the pull of his hand, back bowing in a sinuous curve. He whimpers when Eames tugs, testing how far he can make Arthur go. Pretty far, as it turns out; Arthur is like clay beneath him, easily moulded by Eames’ wandering hands.  


“Do you want this?” he asks quietly, leaning in drag his lips across the circle of hairless skin on the crown of Arthur’s head, a sloppy kiss. “Hmm? Do you? Answer me.”  


He tugs again and Arthur’s eyelids slide shut, his mouth dropping open, pink and wet. “Please,” he whispers again.  


It’s not a no.  


Eames leans back, says, “Roll over,” and Arthur does.  


He looks so wanton like this, Eames thinks, practically despoiled already with his red face, his cock tenting his robes. He lays a hand on Arthur’s side, pressing down through the folds of fabric until he can squeeze the shape of Arthur’s hip, and Arthur moans, bucking up beneath him.  


Eames inhales sharply through his teeth. “On your knees,” he says roughly, and tugs on the robes. “Get this thing off.”  


For a long moment, Arthur just lays there, unmoving. His hands hang uselessly at his sides. Eames feels a stab of panic; maybe he has finally pushed too far. But Arthur’s pupils are still blown wide and dark, his cock jutting out obscenely. Eames hardens his voice into a command, tries again.  


“I said _off_.” He tightens his grip on Arthur’s side until he’s digging into skin. “Don’t make me ask you again.”  


That does it: Arthur rises up, hands curled around the hem of the robes, dragging them up up up until he’s bare to the waist, further until it’s over his head and he’s naked, shivering in the cold air. There’s a flush crawling across his chest, up his throat. Eames wants to chase it with his mouth.  


“On the bed,” he orders.  


Arthur scrabbles to his feet quickly but he pauses by the bed, twisting to stare over his shoulder at Eames. His hands are trembling by his sides. “How –”  


“On your back.”  


Arthur collapses onto the furs like his strings have been cut, legs spread wide and beckoning. Eames settles in the space between them. This is the first time he’s seen Arthur without his heavy robe; even when he’s washing, he does it so slyly that Eames has never been able to glimpse anything beyond a delicate ankle or bony wrist.  


The Arthur beneath him is not what Eames expected. He is as lean and lithe as Eames though, but the muscles he’s built from hauling water and working the plough show in his shoulders and arms. He looks strong, like a young warrior ready for his first raid; except for how pale his skin is, as if he’s never seen the sun. In the firelight he seems to glow, ethereal, a god in human skin.  


Eames’ cock throbs. “What to do with you, priest,” he murmurs.  


Arthur stares up at him through lidded eyes. “Anything,” he pants, chest heaving.  


Eames chuckles, lays a hand against Arthur’s thigh. “Anything?” He rubs his thumb along the taut line of muscle to watch Arthur squirm. “I don’t think you know what you’re offering.”  


But Arthur just nods frantically, spreading his legs wider. “Anything,” he repeats. “Please, Eames, I want – I want –”  


“It’s not about what you want,” Eames reminds him. “It’s about what I want.”  


He digs his thumb in hard to feel the muscle jump, and to his surprise there’s an answering twitch in Arthur’s cock. Eames grins, an idea suddenly taking hold.  


“Show me how you touch yourself,” he says.  


Arthur stills, blinking slowly as his brows draw down into a frown. “I don’t, I haven’t –”  


A _virgin_. Eames takes a steadying breath against a sudden wave of arousal. So this will be Arthur’s first taste of pleasure. Eames thanks the gods again for putting him in his path.  


His hand slides up to the soft crease of skin where Arthur’s hip meets his thigh. “Should I teach you then?” he asks.  


Arthur hesitates, fingers twisting in the furs. Eames can see him mind working, fighting between what his body wants and what his mind says he shouldn’t.  


He goes for the distraction, leaning over to put his mouth on Arthur’s nipple, tongue sliding across his skin. Arthur arches up under him, whining, and when Eames pulls back, his cock is glistening at the tip.  


“When you’re in my bed, you pay attention to me,” Eames tells him, voice low, a warning. “Now, touch yourself.”  


Arthur’s hand is hesitant where it slips over his ribs, his stomach, down the faint ridge of muscles to wrap around his cock. His grip is too loose, Eames thinks, too cautious.  


“Tighter,” he instructs, and Arthur obeys. “Move up and down – yes, like that.”  


Arthur’s mouth falls open. “Oh,” he says quietly, eyelids fluttering again. “It feels – Eames, it feels –”  


“Feels good, doesn’t it?”  


Arthur twists his head this way and that, chest heaving. “Eames,” he groans, and his hand speeds up suddenly. “Eames. I’m –”  


Eames’ hand darts out to wrap tight around Arthur’s wrist. “Not until I say,” he snaps, and Arthur exhales on a shaky sigh. “Go slowly. _Slower_. Mmm, yes. That’s it.”  


He watches as Arthur’s hips twitch helplessly, fucking into his fist, precome slicking the tip of his cock and fingers wetly. He seems to have lost his ability to speak, instead just repeating a litany of please, please, please, breathy and high-pitched. His eyes flit from his hand to Eames’, still lying against his hip.  


“What do you want?” Eames asks, even though he knows exactly what Arthur’s trying for with every roll of his hips. He has a feeling though, that Arthur will beg so prettily. “Use your words.”  


Arthur’s chest heaves, mouth open but silent, and for a second, Eames thinks he might have gone too far again. But then Arthur mewls and throws his head back against the furs. “Your hand,” he chokes out; “Your hand, Eames, please, _please_ , your hand.”  


Eames can’t deny him. He reaches up to close his hand over Arthur’s, squeezing tight so that he bucks up, gasping, eyes clenching shut. It’s obviously so foreign to him, but Arthur certainly can’t deny how much he wants it now, not with the desperate _ah ah ahs_ he’s making as he gets closer and closer to falling off the edge.  


Eames grins, rubs his thumb across the wet tip. “Now,” he says, and Arthur comes apart, thick spurts shooting over their hands, streaking up his chest.  


There’s a sudden silence, broken only by Arthur’s quiet breathing as he relaxes down onto the bed. Eames is suddenly aware that he’s still dressed, pants painfully tight. He gets them open quickly and moves up the bed to straddle Arthur’s shoulders, twisting one hand in his hair as the other rubs his cock against the swell of Arthur’s lip.  


“Open up,” he says.  


Arthur opens so easily for him, letting Eames guide himself inside and thrust forward. He shudders helplessly: it’s messy, spit sliding down Arthur’s jaw where he’s stretched wide, but oh, so good, wet tight heat, Arthur’s tongue sliding smoothly against the underside of his cock.  


“Yes,” Eames hears himself saying; “Like that. Such a good boy for me.”  


Arthur moans low in his throat, the sound vibrating along Eames’ cock. Eames shudders, and curls his fingers around the swell of Arthur’s skull to hold him where he wants so that he can push in harder, deeper. He doesn’t struggle when Eames hits the back of his throat, instead opening further for him, relaxing until Eames is bumping against it with every thrust. There are wet tear tracks on his face, but his eyes have the glazed look of a warrior in battle – no, this is something else, something deeper. Eames has seen the boys at the temple like this, lost to the pleasure, riding the pain.  


“I think you were made for this,” Eames tells him hoarsely.  


To think he could’ve had this every day.  


He doesn’t realise how close he is until its right there, the pressure unfolding like a serpent along his spine. It makes his thrust faster, rougher, until he comes, spilling deep in Arthur’s throat. He pulls out carefully, and the last of his come smears across Arthur’s lips, leaves them shiny and slick. Arthur licks them slowly and Eames feels his cock pulse at the sight. If only he was a younger man with a recovery period to match.  


He rolls off Arthur instead and collapses onto the bed next to him, exhausted, head spinning. Arthur stays silent and still, and when Eames looks at him his eyes are closed, a quiet smile curling his mouth. He looks peaceful, blissful, like a weight has been lifted from him.  


Eames slides a hand under Arthur’s neck and tugs. “Come here, priest.”  


Arthur doesn’t hesitate, rolling over and resting his head against Eames’ chest. His fingers tiptoe across Eames’ skin, along the dark lines of his tattoos, before Eames clamps a hand over them to keep them still.  


“Sorry,” Arthur murmurs, warm air against Eames’ throat.  


“It’s fine,” Eames tells him, and noses at his hairline, pressing a gentle kiss there. “Tickles is all.”  


From here, he can see the circle of skin on the top of Arthur’s head, with its uneven edges and scabs from where Arthur has been clumsy with his shaving. _A sign of devotion_ , Arthur had called it; _a promise to God_. Eames wonders if Arthur will have to shave all his hair off to show his god that he still is a Christian after all of this.  


“You’re a sinner now,” he says against Arthur’s brow. “Do you feel any different?”  


Arthur makes a sad noise, trying to bury his face in the crook of Eames’ neck. Eames just puts his free hand in Arthur’s hair and pulls until he can’t look anywhere but at Eames.  


“Answer me.”  


In the light from the fire, Arthur’s eyes are dark pools, blacker than the night. “It did not feel like sin,” he says quietly, trembling in Eames’ grip. “It felt like I saw God.”


End file.
